


Uncertainty

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, pre-Sirion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 11:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12409395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Since his rescue from Thangordrim, Maedhros has lived in a state of uncertainty. Written for Fëanorian Week 2017.





	Uncertainty

**Author's Note:**

> Although I don't think any archive warnings apply, this fic mentions torture Maedhros experienced at the hands of Sauron and Morgoth, and said torture was not just physical. If that bothers you, stop now.

Maedhros has never been quite clear on whether or not the torture truly stopped.

It had seemed so simple to Findekano – was he still hanging by his wrist from one of the peaks of Thangorodrim? No, he was not. He was therefore free, which meant he was no longer being tortured.

His cousin’s idea of torture was so simple – he knew Maedhros had been beaten and deliberately injured, over and over.  That torture might include so much more than just physical pain was not something Findekano had ever considered.

Maedhros had learned that there was much worse. So much had been done to him -  _did you enjoy that, my prince? I could not tell if those moans were pleasure or pain. Perhaps we should try that again –_ and at him – _should it be this thrall or this one that becomes an orc rather than being granted the mercy of death –_ or by him –  _if you do not kill him, I shall give him to the wolves._

Even when all that stopped, the memories did not.

_Ashes, ashes, they all fall down…_

It was not only Finno who did not understand – none of his cousins, or even his uncle had ever considered the reasons for his odd behavior, for which he was truly grateful. He would not have wanted to see the looks on their faces had they ever realized why he always went so still when someone touched him unexpectedly (still was safest, flinching or tensing would only make it worse) or that even years later he did not like to have anyone, no matter how much he may trust them, approach him from an angle where he could not see them.

The scars had faded, but the scars were not as a rule markers of the worst pains. They did contribute nicely to the ruin of the face and body his mother had named him Maitimo for, but that mattered little. He didn’t like to hear his mother-name by then anyway, for he did not want anything of his mother associated with these lands or this life. His mother was one thing Morgoth hadn’t been able to tarnish.

_No, but then, he didn’t need to, did he? You do that well enough yourself._

That voice. He’s not sure if it’s a remnant of the elf he used to be in his youth, who know right from wrong with such certainty, or if it’s Sauron still in his head. He hoped it was not Sauron, but just in case, he tried never to let the voice have too much sway. Even when it seemed so reasonable, because Sauron had been terribly good at sounding reasonable.  

As for all the rest…

The nightmares, the memories, the knowledge- none of that would ever leave him.

So was he in fact still being tortured?

It would have been so nice to be Findekano with his blissful ignorance and his certainty that he had saved Nelyafinwë.  (Though it might have been better to be Arakano, or best of all Telvo, who had never had to know any of this or see what his brothers had become.) He had done everything in his power to make certain that Finno never learned otherwise, up to and including cheerfully and frequently lying to him.

The lies stung his conscience, but not nearly as much as hurting Finno by having to explain would have.

And after Finno died – after he had failed his beloved cousin in the most fundamental and abject way possible, and not only seen him die, but his body be trampled into the mud of his own blood by his enemies – the absence of Finno was its own special brand of torture.

Some days it was all he could do to continue, to make himself take one breath, and then another, and then another, until day faded into night and he could lie down and try to sleep until it was time to get up and pretend he was well-rested.

The losses eventually blended seamlessly into the rest of the pain, a cousin here, three brothers there, until it was only him and Ambarussa and Makalaurë left. And Artanis, but she didn’t count – with no Oath pursuing her, she might actually live. (Were she any other cousin, he would believe that him finding comfort in thought that at least  _one_  of Finwë’s grandchildren might actually see Morgoth defeated would doom her, but he’s already had his chance to kill her and somehow managed not to, so she should be safe.)

Maybe this will be the day it stops.

He can’t believe they’ll actually regain the Silmaril – if Elwing wanted to give it up, she’s had ample opportunity – but perhaps this time when things go wrong, as they always do for the House of Fëanor, he can manage to be one of the dead.

Maybe he’ll finally be free.


End file.
